


Easy as a Secret Shared

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, Romance, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 16:59:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6814408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's first year at Stanford has been a long, futile attempt to forget about his closely-guarded feelings for Dean. But on his birthday Sam is drunk, and lonely, and tired of missing his brother. Calling Dean is a terrible idea. Or possibly it's the best idea ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy as a Secret Shared

It's the first birthday Sam has experienced without his brother.

His freshman year has been a whirlwind of whiplash, from the excitement of starting college to the gut-wrenching disorientation of losing every constant he's ever known. Only in their absence does Sam realize how many hundreds of things he took for granted before, as month-after-month he trips on them. One by one, over and over. And beneath them all runs a secret, solitary truth: he misses Dean.

He misses Dean every single day. His brother's absence twists like a black hole behind Sam's ribs, easier to ignore when he's busy, but still perpetually _there_.

The semester is almost over, and nobody on campus knows it's Sam's birthday. How can they; he hasn't told them. And even if some helpless corner of Sam's brain wishes for noise and people—for a roomful of his new friends to distract him—the rest of him knows better. He would be terrible company tonight, and none of those things are what he really wants.

"Dean," he says. He's lying on his back, stiff mattress beneath him. The crappy dorm phone perches on his stomach, the cord looped distractedly between Sam's fingers, handset gripped far too tightly in his right hand. There's tinny static on the line, and Sam wishes he had the money to buy a decent cell phone.

"God damn it, Dean," Sam says, talking to his brother's voicemail as though Dean is actually there. His head is fuzzy. Sam is drunk, and his chest aches, and he's never known how to say any of the things that really matter.

Four hours ago Sam dug up a fake I.D.—the only one he's kept since he stopped hunting—and bought a bottle of awful tequila. He hasn't drunk much of it in the hours since, but it's never taken much alcohol to knock Sam flat.

"You should be here." Sam's words are slurred, blurry around the edges. He _sounds_ drunk. He'll probably feel like an idiot tomorrow. He'll definitely feel guilty for calling Dean. There's a reason he's maintained radio silence ever since he boarded the bus to California.

There are a dozen reasons, really, but Dean is the only one that matters. Dean and the messy, ugly, impossible things Sam feels— _wants_ —when he lets himself think about his brother too hard.

"Fuck," Sam breathes after a cringing pause. "Fuck, Dean, m'sorry. I shouldn't have called."

Then he hangs up, dropping the handset too hard back into its cradle, untangling his fingers from the cord. He shoves the phone aside, clumsily putting it back on the desk beside his bed. His desk lamp is the only light in the room, though he can see moonlight in the dark sky through his window. The ceiling directly above him is dirty and gray and boring, but Sam stares at it anyway. It doesn't hold as still as it probably should; Sam must be even more drunk than he realized.

"Fuck," he says again, louder. He's glad his roommate is gone. Glad to have the claustrophobic dorm room to himself tonight.

He doesn't intend to sleep, but he drifts anyway, then startles awake at a quiet sound—the click of a door nearby. Sam jolts upright, his brain sloshing unsteadily with the movement, and his eyes dart for the door. It's closed. Dean stands beside it, setting his pouch of lock-picking tools on top of the bureau behind him. Dean's expression is painfully familiar, a thin attempt to look cool and at ease when he's really just trying not to look guilty.

Sam grins. He can't help it. If he were sober, he would guard his reaction. He would tell Dean to leave. He would make them both miserable in the defense of his own selfish secrets, and for what? What's the point when, after nearly a full year, Dean's absence is the same fresh agony as the day Sam left.

Fuck it. Sam's tired of being lonely, and tonight is his goddamn birthday.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Sam asks cheefully as he kicks his legs to the floor and sits on the edge of the bed. Facing Dean. Still smiling so wide his face hurts.

"I was in the neighborhood." Dean's casual tone is so forced Sam barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. A moment later Dean crosses the minuscule room and sits beside Sam, bracing his hands on the edge of the thin mattress. His fingers curl tightly enough to dent the sheets.

"Hi," Sam says, giddy and warm and a little bit silly as he stares at Dean.

"I didn't get you a present." Dean's not looking at Sam. He's _not looking_ so fiercely it has to be deliberate, and when he shrugs the gesture looks stiff and... sad. Dean looks sad, and Sam's heart creaks with guilt when Dean adds, "Wasn't sure you'd want to see me."

"Dean—"

"Don't," Dean cuts him off. "It's not— You don't have to explain, okay? Whatever your reasons, you got a right to 'em. You don't owe me anything." But he says it like he wishes the words weren't true.

"Why are you here, Dean?" Sam asks, only this time the question is soft and serious. He's staring at his brother's profile, willing Dean to _look_ at him. Hating Dean's caution, his hesitation, his obvious doubt. Dean doesn't think he belongs here, and that fault lies on Sam. Sam excised his brother from his life. Necessary or not, he still feels like shit about it.

"I got your message earlier," Dean answers quietly. "And like I said. I was in the neighborhood."

"Why?" Sam asks.

Dean finally looks at him. "You know why, Sammy." His mouth quirks in an uncertain shadow of a smile, and a moment later he nudges Sam with an elbow. "Happy birthday, little brother."

There's too much affection in Dean's voice, too much weight in the words. And Sam's not thinking right. He can't be. Because if he were, he would simply jostle Dean back. He would ignore the way Dean's tone is warming him and making him ache. He would pretend away the mess of wrong feelings like he's done a thousand times before.

Instead Sam leans in, and there's no time to second guess.

No time for the widening of Dean's eyes to scare him off.

Kissing Dean is nothing like he imagined. But then, when Sam has allowed himself to picture this, he hasn't wasted time on realistic fantasies. He shouldn't be surprised— _isn't_ surprised—when Dean doesn't close his eyes, or melt against Sam, or reach to twist greedy fingers in his hair. Sam shouldn't be surprised that all he gets is frozen stillness, Dean's disbelief unmistakable up close.

Sam abruptly retreats. He curls in on himself and covers his face with his hands. He's mortified. His chest hurts.

Silence crashes in, heavy and suffocating, so complete Sam could almost believe he's alone in his room. Dean is so quiet it's like he isn't even there. This could just be a hallucination. Or better yet, a dream. An awful dream Sam will pretend not to remember through tomorrow's hangover. Unwelcome and unreal.

Then Dean breathes a shaky exhale. Real enough. Christ, no way he'll ever look Sam in the eye again.

"Fucking hell, Sammy," Dean mutters.

But he doesn't sound angry. He doesn't sound disgusted. He doesn't even sound that surprised. Mostly he just sounds tired, and Sam cautiously lowers his hands and straightens his spine. Takes a moment to brace himself, then turns to find Dean watching him with a dangerously careful expression.

"You already knew?" Sam gapes.

For fuck's sake, all this time tearing himself apart trying to keep his unforgivable secret, and Dean _knew_.

" _How_?" Sam sounds more wrathful than he intends.

"You've got a terrible poker face. Always have."

Sam doesn't have the fortitude to be offended. He has other priorities at the moment. He sounds more than a little incredulous when he asks, "Why aren't you angry?"

Dean shrugs again. "No point. I'm surprised as hell, though. Didn't figure _this_ was why you called me tonight. Not after you went to so much trouble disappearing in the first place."

"But you're not—" Sam starts to protest. "You don't— You weren't supposed to _know_."

"We can go back to pretending I don't," Dean says. "Is that what you want, Sammy?"

He's always hated when Dean calls him Sammy, but somehow he doesn't mind this time. Maybe it's the way Dean says it, all complicated and... scared? For a moment Sam is wildly confused. What does Dean have to be scared of? Sam's the one whose secrets have just been laid bare.

But there's an unspoken weight to Dean's question, and it gives Sam pause. He hesitates, watching Dean now every bit as closely as Dean is watching him. He doesn't trust his own perceptions where Dean is concerned. Sam's never been able to look at his brother with an impartial eye. Even before he fell in all the wrong ways—even when Sam was just a kid—hero worship sent everything askew. Sam doesn't know now if what he's seeing in Dean's eyes is anything more than Sam's own hope projected where it doesn't belong.

"Is it what _you_ want?" Sam counters, throwing the question straight back, brazenly upping the stakes. Closely as he's watching, he catches the faint widening of Dean's eyes, the guilty parting of his lips. The caught-out instant before Dean tries to backpedal.

"I don't really get a vote," Dean says.

But Sam's already seen everything he needs. Maybe it's still the tequila giving him courage, or maybe it's inevitability driving him forward. Maybe he and Dean were always bound on this exact collision course, and Sam has been denying himself too long to see it. The reason doesn't matter anyway. Sam is already moving.

This time, kissing Dean is _exactly_ like he imagined. Dean reaches for him, frames Sam's face with strong hands as Sam climbs clumsily astride his brother's lap. Dean's mouth opens at the first pleading touch of Sam's tongue. Dean lets Sam take, take, take with all the desperation bottled up inside him.

Sam doesn't want to stop, but he recedes obediently when Dean finally pushes him away. They're both breathing hard. Dean's lips are swollen from the kiss, and the sight leaves Sam lightheaded.

Then he realizes Dean looks sad, and Sam's brow furrows. "What's wrong?" He's sharply aware of Dean's heat, their bodies pressed close in all the right places. 

Dean's spine shifts beneath Sam's hands. His face smoothes to a guarded expression.

"You're drunk, Sammy," he says gently. "And you're going to regret the hell out of this tomorrow."

"No," Sam denies instantly. He won't regret this. Not tomorrow. Not ever. How can he regret finally, _finally_ having what he wants? Dean in his arms. Dean right where he belongs.

"Trust me," Dean insists steadily. "You wouldn't have run away to California if this was what you really wanted."

Sam burns to protest. He wants to argue until Dean sees just how wrong he is. If Sam had known he could have this—if he'd known he was even allowed to _hope_ —he wouldn't have run in the first place. But Dean is wearing a stubborn look Sam recognizes. It's the one that won't be swayed even by the soundest reasoning. No one can out-stubborn a Winchester; not even another Winchester.

"I _won't_ regret this tomorrow," Sam still says, because he has to try. But Dean is already shifting beneath him, pushing Sam off his lap, twisting from Sam's arms. Sam lets him go, because he knows holding on will only make Dean slip away faster.

"Get some sleep," Dean admonishes as he rises from the bed.

"Will you still be in the neighborhood tomorrow morning?" Sam asks, barely resisting the urge to stand and follow Dean toward the door.

"Sure, Sammy."

"Promise me," Sam demands fiercely.

Dean looks taken aback, but says, "I promise."

"And we'll talk about this again?"

Dean blinks at him, sympathetic but skeptical. "You won't want to talk about this."

"But you'll hear me out if I do," Sam presses. "I mean it, Dean. If you're gonna leave now, you have to promise you'll listen tomorrow."

Dean huffs an exasperated sigh. "Fine. If you really want to talk about all this tomorrow, I'll listen." It's not rocket science figuring out Dean considers this an easy promise, because he doesn't believe Sam at all. But that doesn't matter. He's said the words, which means Sam can hold his brother to them.

"G'night, Sam," Dean says, and then he's gone. Out the door so fast Sam barely believes his brother was there in the first place. But Sam is almost sober now. And when he stands up, he sees his brother's lock-picking kit on the bureau by the door. Sam takes the pouch in hand, balancing the soft leather in his grip.

He sleeps better than he expects that night. And when he wakes to daylight and the ringing of the phone by his bed, he's smiling so hard it's audible when he answers. "Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean's voice is gravel. Sam doubts he slept a wink. "So. Breakfast?"

"Pick me up in ten minutes," Sam says. It will give him barely enough time to brush his teeth and get dressed.

He and Dean have a lot to talk about, and Sam doesn't want to waste a single second.


End file.
